


Electric Hearts

by minyoungis



Series: NCT [5]
Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band, Band Fic, Bassist Hendery, Bassist Yuta, College, Competition, Concert, Developing Relationship, Drummer Kun, Drummer Taeyong, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Guitarist Lisa, Guitarist Lucas, Hot Yuta Descriptions, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Long Shot, Long-Distance Relationship, Musical Instruments, Performance, Pianist Jaehyun, Pianist Ten, Pining, Reader is bi, Rival bands AU, Singer Reader, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Summer Competition, Swearing, alcohol mention, bi the way hehe, mentioned soyeon/reader, pls tell me if i've missed anything, tq, warning: mentions of high school and college, what else can i tag this it really is all over the place hgskjhg, wholesome friendships, yes that is a tag i am making it a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minyoungis/pseuds/minyoungis
Summary: In the span of four years, you go from acquainting with Yuta to hating Yuta and then finally dating Yuta, all against the backdrop of a summer band competition.
Relationships: Nakamoto Yuta/Reader
Series: NCT [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972162
Kudos: 23





	Electric Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> stream electric hearts by wayv

_ Year 1, Eleventh Grade _

The flyer lands square on your nose, momentarily blinding you before you primly pluck it off, turning it around so you can read the contents while flipping off Kun, who leans on the grill next to the school wall that’s identically holding you up.

_‘Annual Summer Bash - Battle of the Bands 2018’_ the brochure reads in bold, red font, followed by registration and contact details. Not that you require them.

“Why do we need this?” you ask, confused. “We’ve been going and winning every year since middle school, I’m pretty sure I have the organiser’s number memorised.”

The drummer fixes you with a dark look. “We might not win this time,” he says, cryptically.

Disbelieving, you scoff, “Oh, come off it. Who’s gonna beat us, _Verve?”_

“Actually, yes.”

“Sure, and Ten’s gonna get a sport’s scholarship,” you reply, sarcasm dripping from your voice, very obviously referring to your keyboardist and his inability to kick a ball.

Kun sniffs in disapproval. “I wouldn’t be so confident, if I were you. They’ve got a new bassist, some kid who’s just moved here.”

“It’s going to take a fat lot more than a new bassist to fix _that_ mess.”

You get a glare in response and roll your eyes, conceding, “Okay, fine. They aren’t that bad. But still, we don’t know how good the new person even is. What happened to Johnny anyway? Too cool for us little people, now that he’s gone to college?”

“Johnny’s judging this year.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Kun’s displeasure is evident in his pursed lips and stern eyes.

Dramatically, unnecessarily so, he continues, accurately taking your silence for incredulity. “We’ve got all the odds stacked against us. If we want to win, we need to practice harder than ever before.”

“What do you mean, _if_ we want to win. Of course we want to win,” you reply in a disgusted tone, looking him up and down in judgement.

It’s his turn to roll his eyes now. “Yes, yes, we want to win. But we still need to practice more if Johnny’s judging. Verve’s been coming in second only by a couple of points for the last two years, they’re getting _better,_ ” he insistently says.

Pushing yourself off of the wall, you straighten up on noticing a black car moving on the road, slowing down as it nears the school entrance next to which the two of you are poised. You pick your bag off the floor and sling it over your shoulder.

“We’ll be fine, we have four months left. We’ve done incredible on less,” you say, slowly backing away from Kun, as you speak in a reassuring voice.

Blatantly disregarding what you just said, he digs his phone out of his pocket while muttering distractedly, “We should have a band meeting today. I’ll tell the others.”

Cheerily, you shrug at him. “Can’t,” you declare, as the car pulls up next to curb right in front of you.

Eyebrows scrunched, he looks up, as he asks, “Why not?”

“Got a hot date.”

The window of the driver’s seat rolls down and your girlfriend sticks her head out.

“All right, Kun?” Soyeon asks with a genial smile, as you give him a wave and a slightly apologetic _‘Meet tomorrow!’_ strolling over to the other side of the car.

“Can’t complain,” he replies to her greeting with a shrug, while simultaneously throwing you a dirty look. “College going fine?”

You open the passenger seat door and enter, shifting your backpack to your lap, as she says with a grin, “Ah, spring break. Can’t complain.”

And with one last _‘Tomorrow, I promise!’_ at a disgruntled Kun, you and Soyeon drive off.

You aren’t as worried as he is. The competition has always gone your band’s way. You’re damned if you’re going to let some new bassist come out of nowhere and change that.

* * *

Three weeks later, you and Ten are setting up in his garage where the band always practice, now knowing the routine like the back of your hand.

After forming in middle school as a group of kids who just wanted to make some music together and shockingly winning the annual city-wide band competition, the group has stayed tight-knit, despite Lisa and Hendery (electric and bass respectively) moving to a different high school. You perform at charity events during the academic year and win the Summer Bash every summer without fail. You work like a well-oiled machine, easily picking up cues on stage and figuring out last minute set lists, and even with how everybody roams in different social circles now, the group chat never stays silent for long.

Meeting up for an arbitrary practice session every month is a given, but the time you guys spend preparing for the competition every year is easily your favourite.

Hendery announces his presence in the make-shift jam room with a loud _‘What’s up, fuckers,’_ before the usual hugs all around (“Hendery, you stink,” courtesy Ten, followed by a genuinely touched, “Thanks, dude!” from the man himself, who has a look of abject glee on his face at the comment).

He settles next to the keyboard, plugging in the amp and tuning his bass, as you and Ten arrange the drum kit.

“Where’s Kun?” Hendery asks, lazily fiddling with his G string.

“Talking to the organisers. He’s been obsessed with trying to find out more about Verve’s new bassist. Calls him, and I quote, the one thing that could stand between us and eternal glory.”

Hendery gives Ten an offended look. “What’s he going and asking the organisers for? He can just ask us, can’t he? Yuta’s joined Bayshore High after all.”

“Yuta?” you ask quizzically.

At the same time, Kun emerges at the garage entrance, mouth agape. “He _what?”_

Hendery’s face immediately splits into his signature grin at the drummer’s appearance, getting up and placing his guitar on the side so he can give him a hug.

“Never mind that,” Kun snaps, quite hurtfully in your opinion. Hendery’s being nothing but nice. And also high, if his slightly dopey eyes are anything to go by.

“Why didn’t you tell me he’s in Bayshore?” he demands from an admirably quickly recovered Hendery, who’s now wrapped his arms around Kun’s waist, despite the latter’s greatest protests.

Stoned Hendery is physical Hendery.

At that moment, Lisa totters into the garage from the door at the back that leads into the house, guitar bag strapped to her back, lugging her amp in with both hands, cheerily calling out, “Why are we talking about Bayshore, what happened?”

You rush over, helping her carry the amp to the other end of the garage as you return her grateful smile with an amused one of your own.

“Kun wants to know about Yuta,” Hendery says, voice slightly muffled by the drummer’s old-man jumper, ass cocked out at an angle so his head is at chest level.

Kun gives an exasperated groan, prying your bassist off while whining, “ _Why_ are you guys talking like he’s your best friend or something?”

“He sits next to us during lunch!” Lisa explains cheerily, as she connects her guitar to the amp.

“He’s got the _best_ goods, dude,” Hendery enthusiastically says.

Kun rolls his eyes. He looks like he’s aged twenty years in the last ten minutes. You make eye contact with Ten and have to look away so the two of you don’t burst into giggles.

“I really don’t care about where he sits or the quality of his weed, I just want to know if he can play,” he says, making his way to the drum kit at the back.

Both Lisa and Hendery look at each other contemplatively.

“We haven’t heard him play,” she thinks out loud. “Yeah, can’t say I’ve even seen him around with a guitar,” he nods in agreement.

Kun takes his seat, now looking a little calmer after getting in position. “Well, try finding out,” he says, tugging his sticks out of the backpack near his stool.

You walk towards the mic stand in the centre, Lisa on one side and Hendery on the other, Ten on the far right corner and Kun directly behind the lot of you.

After a bit of shuffling around, everybody gets ready, and as Kun counts down and the bass line begins, you let yourself slip. _Yuka_ , or whatever his name is, won’t know what hits him.

* * *

The heat doesn’t let up, even after sun down, humidity lingering thick in the air, but it’s the last thing on your mind. You let your sneakers repeatedly scuff against the skirting in the large waiting room, as the rest of your band moves around you, pacing and tuning and flipping drum sticks. There are multiple groups littered around the hall like yours, everybody in various degrees of nervousness, heavy in anticipation. A couple of other regulars come over, wishing you luck and getting the same in return, but a usually polite Kun seems weirdy distracted, as he stands on his tip toes and appears to be looking for somebody.

His eyebrows scrunch up in apparent dissatisfaction, and he comes back down mumbling, “They still have only three people, where’s Yuta?”

Despite their greatest efforts, Lisa and Hendery weren’t able to get any concrete information on Verve’s new bassist, and it’s been driving Kun insane. You know that once he gets behind his drum kit on stage in front of the crowd, he’ll be unstoppable and completely in the zone, but until then, the lot of you put up with his grumbling and head shaking, knowing that if he doesn’t have something to obsess over, he’ll most likely spontaneously combust.

You fiddle with the rings on your fingers, body already in overdrive, the taste of the stage so very close, and as you catch a glimpse of the PAR lights switching on amidst deafening cheers from the growing audience, your heart swoops up, threatening to burst if you don’t get in front of the mic soon.

Conversation slows to a hush as three people enter the room, looking very important with their name tags, and everybody’s head swivels to land on them.

You can tell that Johnny enjoys all the attention, as he gives a charming grin before saying “Hey, guys! Just thought we’d wish you luck before you went on stage. Keep it fair and remember to have fun! It isn’t a competition, it’s a concert.” He ends to the sounds of appreciative chuckles from some of the newbies, but majority of the seniors, including your band, look at him with deeply mistrusting gazes. Ten leans towards you and bitterly mutters, “Smarmy git. Like he didn’t try tripping Hendery last year before we went on stage.”

Johnny appears to be unfazed, directing a quick wink at his old, grinning (still three member) band, as the other judges, a high school music teacher and an ex drummer of a one-hit wonder group, give their own _‘Best of luck!’_ s.

Before you know it, you can hear the MC on stage welcoming everybody, and that spring in your stomach compresses more and more, almost painfully so, just waiting to be out there, under the lights, in front of the audience, surrounded by your band with the mic in your hand.

Rosewater (stylised as _Rosewater!_ by your resident future arts major, Ten)is the second last group in the line-up, right before Verve closes out the show, and you have no doubt that you lost that last spot all because of Johnny. The infamous Yuta hasn’t made an appearance yet and distantly, you wonder how the rest of his band is holding up so well, looking as if the man’s just going to appear out of thin air, with barely five minutes left for the competition to begin.

The bands that go on before you don’t pose much of a threat. Some of them are new, most you’ve competed against before, but either way, you aren’t worried. When you walk up the steps to the stage to sounds of thunderous applause after the MC announces, “Now it’s time for our four time champion, Rosewater!” you can feel your blood pounding in your ears, the coil in your abdomen now wound excruciatingly tight.

And finally, as Kun’s counting down, the keyboard starts, there’s a mic in front of you and hundreds of wide, excited eyes staring at the stage, you feel that coil abruptly unwind rapidly until it completely disappears. You wrap your fingers around the stand, shooting a confident wink at a grinning Soyeon in the first row, and as you open your mouth to sing, you know you’re home.

In what feels like the blink of an eye, you’re all off stage, adrenaline coursing through you and sweat making your clothes stick to your frame. The applause and cheering continues till you’re backstage, bottle of water in hand, and the grin you’re already sporting grows even wider, satisfied and elated with another good performance. You’ve got it in the bag, you’re sure, and if Kun’s bouncing and smug smile is any indication, he agrees, all concerns about Verve out of the window.

After returning all your in-ear mics in the waiting room, the lot of you move backstage, crowding in the wings as you watch the last band set up. You can’t see the bassist from this angle, but when Jaehyun (vocals and keyboard) announces him as their newest member before starting, the crowd screams and you’re sure you hear an only half-joking voice from the audience shout, “Marry me, Yuta!”

You roll your eyes in exasperation, meeting Lisa’s amused gaze. _‘Pretty boy,’_ she mouths at you with a blinding grin, still high off of the performance.

Kun seems to share your sentiment, his expression half gleeful and half relieved at your combined assumption that this Yuta is nothing more than a prop. They needed a bassist so the got the best-looking one they could find.

But the moment the music starts, your jaw drops. They’ve opted for a very Arctic Monkeys-esque, bass prominent beginning, and the skill with which the strings are being plucked makes you want to drown in the beautifully deep sound.

Not just a pretty boy apparently.

You want to be annoyed, you really do, but it’s difficult not to resist the pull of the music. It’s like they’re a completely different band, with Taeyong drumming harder than you ever remember him doing and Lucas shredding on the guitar.

You’ve long held the belief that your instrumentalists are the best in the competition, all these years giving you no reason to suspect the contrary, but this? This whole new band can give them a run for their money, you grudgingly admit, head helplessly bobbing to the beat.

Kun’s face runs through shock, displeasure and reluctant admiration just in the span of the four bar intro. Around you, Ten, Lisa and Hendery seem to be having the time of their lives, apparently having given up on feeling attacked by the universe for this unexpected turn of events. The drummer shoots you a betrayed look, but all you can do is give him a soothing pat on his shoulder as your body begins to move as well.

For a split second in the middle of the show, you catch a glimpse of the elusive Yuta for the first time, face gleaming with sweat, dazzling grin on his face as he looks down at his guitar, plucking the strings effortlessly almost, body swaying and head bobbing.

You feel a grudging respect for him, as you observe him look up at the crowd, stage persona oozing charisma as he shoots a wink at some poor soul in the audience, cheers instantly growing that much louder.

As their performance progresses, the cockiness you felt at the end of your own slowly begins to morph into subtle worry as you consider the unthinkable occurring.

Losing.

And twenty minutes later, when all the bands are huddled on stage, waiting for the winners to be announced, you’re forced to seriously think about it happening. Kun nearly crushes your hand in a death grip, as Hendery worriedly chews at his long thumb nail on your other side.

The MC announces last to first, until there are just you and Verve left, vying for the top position. You’re certain you’ll never be able to feel your fingers again, but the pain seems oddly distant, all of your attention focused on the man standing in front of the two bands, everybody on stage facing the crowd.

As he’s waiting for the applause for third place to die down, you chance a glance at the other band standing next to you. Yuta looks infuriatingly calm, smug even, and your fledgling dislike intensifies.

“And now it’s time for first place-“

_Please, please, I’ll go to the temple everyday for a week, I promise._

“In a surprise turn of events-”

_I’m sorry for not believing in you earlier and for writing my English essay on atheism. I’ll make it up to you, please._

“For the first time in four years-“

_Fuck off._

The cheers are deafening, and you’d almost forgotten how awful it felt to lose. It comes rushing at you, this out of body feeling, as the crowd doesn’t even wait for the band name to be announced. The rolling trophy that has _‘Rosewater!’_ written on it four consecutive times, now with a new, shiny addition at the bottom, reading _‘Verve’_ , is handed to the winners. You try not to let the dejection show, politely clapping and bowing, just like the rest of your band as the MC announces, “Congratulations to Rosewater on placing second!”

You walk off stage with a bitter taste in your mouth as you see Johnny hooting loudly and the band taking turns holding the trophy. As much as you want to believe that they won simply because an ex-member was judging, deep down, you know that they were much, much better than they used to be.

* * *

Every year, after the competitioncomes the _real_ Summer Bash-a party organised for all participants and judges at a nearby party hall. It’s always super crowded, given that no less than twelve bands at the very least sign up every time, with three or four judges and multiple organisers scattered across the room.

You’ve always enjoyed the party, loving the attention as Rosewater totes the trophy around, greedily accepting congratulations and trying not to gloat at the other bands. Partway through the night, the person in charge of making sure no minors go to the bar always mysteriously disappears, so everybody has free rein with the alcohol, and it’s where you met Soyeon last year, after her band finished third before disbanding.

But the party feels like nothing short of hell right now, as you stand slouched against the wall in the corner with Kun, Lisa and Ten. Hendery entered the crowd a while back, leaving you to stare in astonishment and betrayal at the gap between writhing bodies that he had disappeared through. However, you know that in a room full of high school and college kids, most of them his regulars, he’ll make one hell of a killing with his…products, and who are you to begrudge a good business plan?

The four of you plaster on fake smiles whenever somebody comes over to talk, but most of the time is spent glaring daggers at Verve preening in the centre of the dancefloor, trophy being tossed high in the air as they lap up the attention. They’ve always been decently popular in the party scene, on accunt of the fact that they all look like they’ve been carved from marble, but with Yuta, it’s like their popularity’s skyrocketed. You don’t remember ever having _those_ many people around you whenever Rosewater won.

Entering your line of vision, Soyeon comes fighting through a gap, holding two drinks high up in the air. She hands one over to you, coming to stand right in front of your frame. You take a sip of the Cranberry juice vodka mix and give her a grateful smile, before getting up on your toes so you can continue glaring at Yuta over her shoulder, as he begins a handstand to the sound of loud cheers from the surrounding crowd.

Your girlfriend huffs in amusement. “They can’t see you, there’s really no point.”

Mouth set in a grim line and arms crossed, Kun replies, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Ten, go dance so they stop getting attention.”

But Ten’s too far sunken in despair to listen to Lisa, settling for a sad, soft hum before he pushes himself off the wall. “This party stinks. I’m going home.”

Kun’s pleas to get him to stay because ‘they haven’t felt all of our wrath yet’ falls on deaf ears, as Ten just gives a tiny, subdued wave before walking towards the exit.

With a decisive nod, Soyeon says, “I agree with Ten. You guys are ruining it for yourselves. Stop moping and have some fun, will you? You can win next year.”

She doesn’t get anything in response except some grunts, and with a roll of her eyes, she grabs one of your hands in hers before tugging you off the wall. “C'mon, Y/N. I go back to college in a week, I wanna hang out.”

Powerless to resist, you throw an apologetic look at Kun and Lisa, before allowing Soyeon to drag you away in the same direction that Ten had left, along the wall of the room towards the door on the opposite end of the hall.

Her grip is tight around your hand, as you two skirt along the edge of the crowd, making sure your drinks don’t spill. You look up from the floor your eyes have been glued to for a second, just to see how much farther before you can get some fresh air without worrying about stepping on somebody’s foot, and you catch the eye of none other than Yuta. Like he was waiting for this, as if in slow motion, gaze locked intently and unwaveringly on yours, he brings the trophy up to his face and presses his lips to the plaque.

White, hot rage pulses through you and for a second, you seriously consider letting go of Soyeon’s hand, storming over to him, and smacking the cocky smirk right off of his damn face. But you see your girlfriend mouth, _“Not worth it,”_ and you allow yourself to be dragged away, silently fuming.

That night before you fall asleep, you vow that next year, Yuta will regret waltzing into _your_ competition and acting like he’s all that.

* * *

_ Year 2, Twelfth Grade _

Sticking your hand out, you tug at Ten’s arm the moment he rounds the corner you’ve been waiting at for the last ten minutes or so. With a surprised yelp, he ends up next to you, as you immediately let go of him and adjust your scarf that had gotten displaced. The frigid January air makes you rub your gloved palms together as Ten gives you an affronted look, massaging the inside of his elbow where you had pulled.

“What was that for?” he asks, in a wounded manner.

Wordlessly, with a _follow me_ motion, you turn around, bag swinging behind you as you begin a rapid, determined march, face set, weaving in between the stream of students about to leave at the end of a long school day.

Next to you, you can practically _feel_ Ten’s eyes roll as he easily keeps up with you, strolling next to your deliberate, serious walk.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Again, you don’t give him a response, speeding up as you near your destination. He huffs in annoyance.

Drawing up to a closed classroom, you shoo Ten until you’re both crowded against the door, ears pressed to the wood.

He looks at you quizzically, eyebrows scrunched. “Why are you acting weird?”

You shush him as you closely pay attention to what’s going on inside the room, ignoring the weird looks that are being thrown at the two of you from students around.

Muffled, through the door, you can make out the teacher explaining homework, and you manage to jump out of the way just in time, dragging a thoroughly confused Ten along with you, right before the door is pulled in, and the teacher walks out.

“Y/N, this is getting really annoying,” he whines, exasperated, as you grab his elbow and walk into the classroom full of students who are packing up, moving in until you’re directly in front of Kun’s bench. His head snaps up to you, his conversation with Sicheng next to him coming to a dead halt as he processes your resolute expression and Ten’s half-irritated, half-bemused one.

Once you make sure that you’ve got his attention, you swiftly turn around and stride towards the door. Proving that he’s your favourite member, he simply sighs a little in defeat, before you hear him bid Sicheng goodbye and clap Ten on the shoulder in solidarity.

You hear both their footsteps behind you as you lead them out to the car park. Their loud whispering isn’t exactly subtle.

“Is she fine?”

“I’m not sure, she pretty much just kidnapped me from the corridor a while back.”

“Yikes. Finally hit breaking point, do you think?”

“Fairly certain, yeah. Or maybe this is another one of her weird post-breakup rituals.”

“Oh no, I don’t think I could handle another evening of sitting curb side and screaming at all the black cars we see.”

“Can we just tell her that Soyeon got a new car? Maybe then she’ll let up.”

_“Ahem,”_ you interrupt them, spinning around on your heel once you’ve reached Kun’s shiny, grey sedan.

They immediately shut up, waiting for you to explain with expectant looks, not even having the decency to look properly ashamed.

After fixing them with a dark glare, you continue. “We need to go to Bayshore,” you say without preamble.

Kun looks at you like you’ve grown another head. Ten just looks bored.

“Why?” the latter asks.

“And why in my car?” Kun adds.

With a deep sigh, you firmly explicate. “We need to practice. And your car is the only one that can fit all of us.”

“Practice for what?”

“What do you mean _all?”_

The two of them look at you suspiciously.

“For the Summer Bash, obviously. And I mean the three of us and Lisa and Hendery.

To your great annoyance, the reply you get is Ten lifting his hand to rest the back of it on your forehead. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Kun looks at you, equally worried. “The last time Hendery sat in my car, it took a week for the smell of weed to disappear.”

Now thoroughly irritated, you impatiently swat Ten’s hovering hand away from your face. “Look, I _know_ it’s a little sooner than we usually start-”

“Y/N, it’s January. I doubt the organisers have even starting planning it.”

With a glare towards Ten at the interruption, you continue, “-but we have to _win._ ”

It’s like Kun’s spirit from last year has taken over you. You’ve spent the last month carefully planning multiple possible set list options, highlighting each member’s strengths and figuring out songs that will capitalise on the same. You’ve got a road map ready and a practice schedule drawn up.

Kun and Ten have rather resigned looks on their faces. Which is fine by you, really. As long as they’ve stopped outright protesting.

You move to the passenger seat and look at Kun with a pointed expression, waiting for him to unlock the car.

“We aren’t getting out of this, are we?”

“Nope,” you cheerily reply, popping the _p._

With a long suffering sigh, he moves to the driver’s seat as Ten groans in reluctant acceptance, walking towards the back.

An hour later sees the three of you along with Lisa and Hendery sitting at a corner table in a small, aesthetic coffee shop near Bayshore High, one of those places that has low rise furniture and bean bags and naked, hanging bulbs with edgy posters on the open brick wall.

The other two didn’t put up too much of a fight, being relatively less high-strung. Lisa just gave some weird mixture of an eye roll and a smirk and Hendery outright snorted, but after some strategic glaring on your part, they fell in line quick enough.

There are steaming cups on coffee on the table in front of you, but they lie forgotten in favour of the A3 sized sheet you had stolen from the school art room last month. At the top, you’ve written _‘Summer Bash 2019 - Rosewater! Road Map to Victory’_. The rest of the sheet is filled with sub headings and bullet points, all colour coded and properly indented.

Lisa and Ten _ooh_ and _aah_ over the chart, as you smugly take in what you’re sure is your greatest artistic work, but all Kun says is, “Okay, but how come the chemistry notes you lent me look like a four year old wrote them with their non-dominant hand using a leaky ink pen?”

You refuse to deign to reply, pretending to have not heard him as Hendery snorts on your other side.

“This chart is our holy Bible for the next four months,” you say, once everybody’s settled down.

“Aren’t you Hindu?”

Once again, you give no verbal reply to Kun’s nonsense, simply whacking the back of his head and ignoring his whines of protest.

“ _As_ I was saying, this is our plan. Clearly, today is meeting one-,“ you indicate the first bullet point, “-and meeting two is this weekend. By the end of this month, we should have a set list.”

Lisa asks in awe, as she pores over the sheet, “How much time did you spend on this?”

Images of you staying up nearly every night with sketch pens spread around you, and working on it under the bench in classes, not to mention in lunch as your friends laughing and chattering rush into your mind. With a self-deprecating wave of your hand, you reply nonchalantly, “Don’t worry about it.”

Ten looks like he’s about to say something when you hear a high, drawling voice from behind you. “Oh, look! It’s Rosewater.”

Somehow, despite the fact that you’ve never actually heard him speak, you know who it is. He sounds exactly like the voice that screams in your head every time you punch your pillow picturing it’s his face.

Lisa and Hendery look happy enough, waving up at him as Yuta rounds the table to stand on the side, but Ten and Kun have identical uncertain expressions on their faces.

And you? All you feel is a flash of annoyance that you immediately tamp down. No need for him to know how riled you are.

In as dignified a manner as you can, you begin to fold the sheet in front of you before Yuta can notice it, but you’re too slow. He crouches down, sarcastic smirk giving way to a genuinely amused grin, as he quickly places his palm flat on the surface of the paper before you can gather it.

His face is inches from yours as he bends over the sheet. “And what’s this? Road map to victory? Surely you aren’t starting practice so _soon?_ ”

Kun tries, and fails, to sound threatening as he replies, “So what if we are?”

Yuta’s grin, if possible, only grows wider. You feel yourself frozen on the spot, unable to look away as you watch his head slowly swivel until his eyes meet yours directly.

“It means you feel threatened. Do I threaten you, Y/N? Is that why you’ve made this middle school art project?”

Your throat goes dry at his low voice that’s directed straight at you. With great effort, you let out a scoff that sounds fake even to your ears. Forcing yourself not to look away from him, you bite out with as much venom as you can muster, “You wish, _Yuka._ ”

His smile, much to your chagrin, doesn’t dampen as he lifts his hand off of the sheet and lets you wrench the sheet away.

Infuriatingly blasé, he rises from his squat. Looking down at the table, he says, cocking his head to a side, “Actually, I’m glad you guys are starting so early. It should put us on an equal footing, yeah?”

And with one last condescending wave, he turns around and struts back to whichever shit hole he crawled out of.

You let out a breath you were unaware you were holding and jump in alarm as you hear a growl next to you.

Kun looks murderous, eyes boring holes into the door through which Yuta just disappeared.

“We’re gonna win the fuck out of this bitch.”

* * *

You’d think you’d be used to the pre-performance combination of anxiety and excitement after so many years of being on stage, but it hits you as hard as ever, festering deep in your bones as you aimlessly fidget around the tiny 24×24 tile that you’re stood on in the corner of the waiting room, careful not to step outside the box.

The sound of participants around you is nothing more than background noise to the stark, white _emptiness_ that’s currently occupying all the space in your head. Lisa’s plucking at her strings, the sound muted because her guitar isn’t connected to an amp, and Kun’s hitting a nervous, complicated beat with his sticks on the wall. Ten and Hendery are engaged in a highly mindless game of chopsticks to pass the time.

It’s like you have this little vacuum of quiet surrounding you. You can feel the anticipation rolling off of your band in waves. You’ve always been well prepared, but this year, you feel confident enough to take on any professional music group in a one-on-one battle.

After that first meeting, everything went according to plan. There were no more run-ins with Yuta (as a band that is, because Lisa still has two classes with him and he’s one of Hendery’s favourite crack buddies), and you’re glad that the rest of Verve all go to a different school because if they came anywhere near yours, you’re sure your and Kun’s blood pressures would’ve hit astronomical levels.

The judges this year are all new, people you’ve never met before with no known connections to any of the participating bands, and this information only serves to boost your confidence.

You hear a hiss next to you, and you zone back in to catch Kun whispering, “They’re here.”

Your gaze goes up until it catches first Jaehyun’s nod, then Taeyong’s mock salute and moving to Lucas’s tiny wave before finally settling on the devil incarnate. He stands there, guitar strap around his neck, his eyes swimming with obnoxious mirth, lips upturned in a cocky smirk. You determinedly refuse to look away, but a traitorous voice in your head suggests that maybe the reason you aren’t breaking contact is because you can’t.

You might hate his guts, but there’s no denying his attractiveness. And especially right now, with his ripped, black, skinny jeans and his loose, off-white Ramones t-shirt, he looks like the epitome of edgy punk bassist in his partly silver-dyed hair. There are chains hanging from his neck, and his veined forearms lead to long fingers that are lazily resting on the guitar neck.

He makes no gesture, cold smirk telling all. You return it with a sneer of your own. You’ll leave the gloating for once you’ve won in the next two hours or so.

Rosewater is last in the line up this year, right after Verve, and you hear their performance from the waiting room that’s now empty except for your band. With a jolt of glee, you notice that they have pretty much the same vibe as the previous year going.

Lisa scoffs, apparently thinking the same thing that you are. “How very one-trick pony of them.”

Kun warningly replies, “Let’s not get too cocky.” But if the blaze of confidence in his eyes and the determined set of his shoulders is anything to go by, he’s having a hard time not feeling like you’ve got this in the bag too.

And finally, the last four months of ardent practice come to a glorious zenith as you perform the best, most exciting show of your Summer Bash career, deafening cheers emanating from the crowd as the lot of you play like a single unit. The ending chord, the last drum roll, the final head bang, all give way to spectacular applause and hooting, and you lap it all up, head spinning from the adrenaline rush and the high you always get from standing on stage.

You stand there panting, feeling on top of the world as the rest of your band gathers around you for the signature Rosewater ending bow, and as you’re surveying the crowd with a wide smile that feels like it’s been permanently etched onto your face, you catch sight of Verve near the back of the audience.

Your grin only grows wider as you catch Yuta’s sour look, resembling a spoiled child whose demands haven’t been met, and as you come up from your bow, you drop a deliberate, obnoxious wink in his direction, ensuring that he knows it’s directed at him.

Twenty minutes later, you’re all stood on stage again, Verve standing next to you, waiting for the MC to announce first place. It’s a twisted sense of deja vu, when you’re so sure of a different outcome after experiencing the exact same situation in the past. You know you’ve won before they even announce it. So does the crowd. And so does Yuta, if his narrow eyes and disgruntled expression are anything to go by.

He drops a venomous sneer as Ten and Lisa accept the rolling trophy, but nothing can dampen your spirits in this one moment, your gaze stuck in satisfied awe at the _Rosewater!_ on the plaque and that feeling of elation settling deep in your bones, expanding so large that you just might burst from the perfection of it all.

* * *

_This is the life,_ you think, as Kun passes the trophy over to you. You’re not one for crowds usually, but when you’re surrounded by people cheering your band name with said band equally excited next to you, in the middle of the flashing lights and the trashy dance music with a glass of green apple vodka in your hand, you think you don’t mind it every once in a while.

Go one year without winning, and suddenly you’re thirsting for this fan adoration like a singer parched.

You triumphantly thrust the trophy up in the air single handed and soak in the renewed loud shrieks, feeling powerful and satiated.

You’re brought out of your reverie by Lisa ducking her head to come to your ear level as she whispers, “Washroom,” and ten minutes later sees you standing outside the lady’s toilet in the quiet, empty corridor, waiting for Lisa to finish up. It was difficult to extricate yourselves from the insistent crowd, but now that you’re here, back leaning on the wall, directly facing the gender neutral toilet that’s in between the lady’s and gent’s ones, the silence is a welcome reprieve.

You can still faintly hear the bass thumping through the wall as you indifferently count the number of tiny cracks on the tile you’re stood on, head bowed, enjoying the empty silence and wondering if you should just call it a night and go home.

Hearing a door open in front of you, you’re about to suggest as much, but you stop short as you lift your head and see not Lisa, but Yuta.

The door to the men’s room swings shut behind him as he stands frozen as well, caught as unawares as you are.

You shut your mouth abruptly as Yuta opens his to say something, but he shuts his mouth too, and now the two of you are left gawking at each other stupidly in the middle of a party hall corridor.

Why it’s so awkward, you don’t know. You’ve just beaten him. Wasn’t that the goal for the last four months?

Distantly, you wonder what’s taking Lisa so long.

Before you can make an excuse to escape into the washroom, you hear him mutter something under his breath. If he weren’t looking straight at you, you’d have thought he was talking to himself.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Congratulations,” comes the sullen reply, and you’re so thrown by it that it takes you moment to reply with an unsure _‘Thanks.’_

He doesn’t stop there, though. “You guys were incredible.”

His body language is incredibly uncharacteristic, as he fidgets and his dark brown eyes hold none of the usual coldness. There’s no cocky smirk, no challenging stance. It’s almost like he’s being…genuine.

Huh. Who would’ve thought?

You recover yourself, your gaze drawn to the multiple tiny studs he’s wearing on both his ears that you had never really noticed before. “Thank you,” you stiffly repeat, a little distracted by the new discovery.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just giving you a short nod before he turns and walks back towards the party, leaving you to stare at his back, shocked as you catch sight of a hint of black ink peeking out of the sleeve of the t-shirt on his right tricep, clearly visible from this angle.

You have no time to dwell on it as Lisa steps out into the corridor in that moment, drying her palms on her dark blue jeans. “Ready to go back?” she asks, linking your arm with hers as she begins to trace the path that Yuta just took.

Gently disentangling your limb, you slow down to a stop. “Actually, I think I’ll head home,” you say, not meeting her eyes.

She frowns, halting as well. “Okay,” she starts unsurely. “Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, yeah, just…it’s been a long day. I think I just need some quiet. I have to finish packing for college anyway.”

Her expression morphs into one of pity and comfort from her previous suspiciously concerned one. Quietly, in a pacifying voice, she says, “It must have been painful to see Soyeon in there, huh? Do you want me to drop you home?”

Glad to have this excuse handed to you on a plate (Truth be told, you never even noticed that your ex had come for the Bash this year, leave alone attended the party. Somehow, nobody seems to believe that you aren’t cut up or brooding about the breakup that happened six months ago, how many ever times you tell them that it just wasn’t working and you both had mutually decided to part ways.), you try to muster as sad a look as possible while replying, “No, no, it’s alright, you go have fun. I’ll book a cab.”

That night, as you lay in bed, sleep eludes you. You’re still elated from the win, body slightly buzzing from the remnants of stage adrenaline and the single glass of alcohol you had consumed. But something else nags at you, something that you’d been avoiding throughout the cab ride and the whole time you changed into your pyjamas. Or rather, _somebody._

In the dark, with cool air entering your room from the open crack in the window making your body pleasantly shiver under the blankets, it’s harder to ignore the memory of Yuta’s hard, true gaze boring into yours as he congratulates and praises you with no underlying motive. You can’t forget the way his lips curve when they aren’t stuck in that stupid sneer, and your mind seems hell-bent on remembering the images of the silver hoop glinting on his upper ear lobe and the dark, fresh tattoo on his arm. The room suddenly doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

The vicious punches you deliver to your pillow that night in frustration are less with the assumption of the fluffy cotton being Yuta’s face, and more along the lines of your own thoughts, trying to drive them out. Unconvincingly, you chalk it up to tiredness and slight tipsiness, before falling into a restless sleep.

* * *

_ Year 3, Freshman Year _

“Can you hear me?”

“I swear to God, Kun, if you ask us if we can hear you one more fucking time, we’ll kick you out and have this meeting ourselves. We’ve been able to hear you and your cereal chewing for the last five minutes, get on with it.”

Kun swallows a mouthful of said cereal with a reproachful look on his face before softly sulking, “I was just _checking._ ”

Before Ten can blow up again, Hendery pacifies soothingly, “Yes, Kun, we can hear you. Go ahead, what’s the plan?”

You tilt your laptop screen up so you can see everybody’s faces better, eagerly waiting for Kun to start as you take a bite of the granola bar in your hand.

“I don’t have a plan.”

Well, that was anticlimactic.

Lisa chuckles before she says, “Okay, funny. I have dance practice in twenty minutes, though, so why don’t you tell us the _real_ plan.”

Kun just shrugs. “I’m serious, I don’t have a plan.”

Ten moves his head closer to the laptop screen so you’re given a lovely close up of his nose. Suspiciously, he asks, “What do you mean, you don’t have a plan?”

“I mean I don’t have a plan. I don’t see how we can possibly practice over a video call. The lag is horrible and Y/N’s frozen half the time.”

Hendery mildly says, “That’s just her resting face.”

Flipping him off, accurate as he is, you swallow your granola before you ask, “Lisa and Ten, you guys are sure you won’t be able to make it home for spring break?”

They both shake their heads.

It’s that time of the year again, mid-February, Summer Bash practice time, but there’s a new challenge to work around. The fact that you’re all miles away from each other in different colleges, and you haven’t been able to have a single jam session in the last seven months because everybody’s schedule never seems to line up. It went without saying that Rosewater would participate this year, but none of you had anticipated how difficult it would be to coordinate practices.

Kun continues. “The only option we have is those two weeks between the beginning of summer vacation and the actual competition. It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do.”

Hendery mumbles something and you think it’s just his mic acting up again, but on prompting, his grainy voice comes a little stronger but still sheepish. “One week.”

You stop mid-chew. Kun and Lisa stare at him with wide eyes, and Ten’s eyebrows are furrowed.

“What was that?” you ask. Your mouth is still full, but your message gets across clear enough.

He gives a little sigh. “I need to stay back in college for an extra week to discuss my internship, I won’t be back home until the 17th.”

Kun sinks back in his chair in disbelief as Lisa lets her forehead fall on the table with a dull _thunk._

“We’re so fucked,” Ten whispers.

But a thought occurs to you and urgently, you ask, “But what about Verve? Does anybody know if they’ve been practicing?”

Moodily, Kun replies, “They were all home for Christmas, they must have practiced. And I met Taeyong at the dinner hall a couple of weeks back, he said he’s, and I quote, super excited to get with the guys and jam during spring break.”

All hope extinguished, you glumly fold your empty granola bar wrapper.

“At least with Kun and Taeyong in the same college, we have a little bit of inside information,” Lisa says, but her voice carries none of her usual cheerful optimism.

For a moment, it seems like the remaining ten minutes of the call are going to go in a similar vein, morose grumbling as you all let yourself wallow in self-pity and annoyance about things out of your control, but you’re brought out of your depressed rumination by Ten, who utters in the same tone of voice, “Y/N should just drive down to the UC’s and get more information from Yuta. Or break his hand so he can’t play.”

Immediately, your fingers still on the wrapper you were fidgeting with. The others take it as the joke it was meant to be and pay no mind, except for an approving grunt from Kun, but your head goes into overdrive.

You haven’t met Yuta since that night, but you find yourself thinking about him more than you’d like. You’re not obsessed or anything, but your brain occasionally startles you with images of him guitaring whenever you listen to certain songs and you catch yourself thinking about how well he’d play the bassline. Or when you see somebody walking around with a tattoo you’re curious about and realise with a bolt of shock that you want to know what Yuta’s means. Or when you got your upper lobes pierced and you were fiercely, vividly reminded of his.

It’s manageable most of the time. You’re constantly remembering little things about your friends, and he’s just a really great bassist that happened to make an impression on you. But sometimes, it’s harder to make these excuses, like when you’re drunk at a party and making out with the person who sits next to you in calculus and you find yourself vaguely wondering what making out with Yuta would be like. Or when you hear your roommate talking to her boyfriend who goes to the same college as Yuta does, and you desperately, _greedily_ want to know if they’ve met each other, just for some information, some semblance of a personal contact, however convoluted.

But also, you’re great at avoidance and compartmentalisation, so you manage to _it just be like that sometimes_ your way through these more dangerous thoughts.

The call goes on, gloom and acceptance settling heavy in all your bones, until Lisa has to leave for her practice, and your roommate comes back and nags at you to turn off your laptop because the screen is too bright.

When you all left for different colleges, it seemed to go without saying that you’d participate in every Bash that you possibly could. Now, you’re left wondering if that was a conversation that Rosewater should have had.

* * *

In the last seven years of your life, you’re fairly sure that this is the most embarrassed you’ve ever felt. The night breeze ruffles your dyed hair as you lean on the open balcony railing. From somewhere in the building, you can still faintly hear the sounds of the after party raging.

The rest of Rosewater has left and you’re not sure what you’re still doing here. By all means, you should be sleeping in bed, or completing your summer classes, or pretty much doing anything else but this. But an hour after the most disastrous performance of your band’s career, you’re six feet under your thoughts and feelings on an empty balcony, wondering how you hadn’t seen this coming.

The beer can that you had snuck out of the party remains three quarters full and abandoned, precariously perched on the railing next to your elbow. It’s an oddly cool and windy night for the peak of summer, but you relish the feeling on your super heated skin, still slightly flushed in mortification.

Memories of a broken high hat, an excessively distorted electric solo on a malfunctioning amp, and a fucking _voice crack_ play on loop in your brain and there’s nothing you can do to stop them. Unseeing, you face the city in front of you, unable to forget the shocked but polite applause Rosewater had received at the end of the performance, the dismissive, pursed lips of the judges and the sound of the MC announcing, _“And in sixth place, we have last year’s champions, Rosewater!”_

Seven bands had participated.

You hear the door creak open behind you and you whip around, already formulating an excuse about why you’re two floors up from the party and standing alone on a dark balcony, but coherent thought stops when you see who it is.

Yuta had done his whole _I’m better than you_ act before the concert, making your blood boil despite the fact that you were sure they were going to beat you. A week of practice is not nearly enough. But once you had finished performing as the last band to go up on stage, all you got was a blank, confused stare which had morphed into pity as your eyes met his across the stage as you all waited for the results. And that’s just the icing on the cake, isn’t it? Being pitied by your fucking nemesis slash the person you sometimes think about kissing but only out of curiosity.

You didn’t watch their performance, too embarrassed to stay after your show, but it’s a small blessing that Verve placed second and not first. Not heartening enough to pull you out of your funk, but better than the scenario where they win.

You’re too tired and depressed to start a verbal sparring match and you tell him as much, letting out a little sigh at the end as you turn around to face the railing once again, expecting him to leave.

“Who said I came to fight?”

You hear him walk further into the balcony, leaning next to you, elbow nearly brushing against yours, as you force yourself to seem nonchalant and ask with a cocked eyebrow. “Did you not?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up the beer can and giving you a questioning look. You wave your hand in permission and he lifts it to his lips, taking a large gulp. With difficulty, you tear your eyes away from his exposed neck, tilted upwards.

“Okay, maybe I did come to gloat.”

“Go ahead, then. Tell me about how much we sucked.” At this point, you’ve beaten yourself up enough that you’re sure nothing he says will seriously affect you.

“It wasn’t _that_ awful.”

You fix him with a steely glare, snatching the can from his grip.

He gives up the act as he drops his shoulders and nods, amending, “Okay, fine, it was pretty pathetic. I honestly thought you guys would come last.”

It feels calming somehow, to hear those words. Everybody’s been tiptoeing around you since the competition, refusing to say the truth, and it feels right and solid to listen to a no-nonsense statement like that.

You hum in acquiescence as you have a sip of the bitter beer, wordlessly passing it to him when you finish. And so it goes, the two of you taking turns quietly drinking until the can is empty, after which he drops it into the tiny dustbin in the corner.

You’re not sure how you feel so calm, especially after noticing his _very_ evident tattoo in his short sleeved t-shirt, something written in Japanese, and the fact that he’s got a new helix piercing, but you’ve hit a state of being where your head just keeps repeating, ‘ _How can things possibly get worse after a shit day like this one?’_ , so you’re feeling simultaneously reckless and exhausted.

He comes back and stands next to you, resuming his previous position. On impulse, you ask, “So what _did_ you come here for, if not to gloat and drawl and strut your second place about?”

He snorts at your wording and splutters indignantly, “I don’t _strut.”_

“Oh, you most certainly do. Like you own the bloody place.”

With narrowed eyes, he demands, “Well, what about you, then?”

“What about me?” you coolly ask.

“Not exactly _angelic,_ are you? With all your cocky winking and smirking. Makes me want to tear my fucking hair out.”

You feel a perverse sense of glee, that you manage to get a reaction this intense, and with a smile of benevolent cheer, you shortly nod your head in thanks in his direction.

He chuckles and just like that, the two of you settle into silence again, with you feeling lighter than you did a couple of minutes back.

You’re looking out onto the city and the lights twinkling in the dark, when you notice shifting in your periphery and see that Yuta’s turned around now, back to the railing as he leans languidly on it, elbows resting over the edge. His gaze is fixed on yours and when you meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away, expression serious.

Unable to break eye contact, you stare, transfixed, as he starts, “I’ve been thinking-“

“Yuta! There you are!”

Both of your gazes dart to the doorway comically fast to see Lucas barely holding himself up, eyes slightly red, obviously drunk.

Rushing to him before he can fall, Yuta grabs his arm, tugging it over his shoulder, propping the man up.

Lucas seems to catch sight of you for the first time and he exclaims, slurring, “Y/N!”

You lift your hand in an amused wave, mind still slightly reeling from Yuta’s proximity. 

“You guys were shit!” he continues in the same, excited voice, and the tiredness hits you like a truck all over again. You instantly want nothing more than to go to bed.

“Thanks,” you reply dryly, as Yuta apologetically winces.

He shrugs in helplessness, as Lucas continues to ramble about _‘that note you didn’t hit, dude, I was so ready to get hyped’,_ before he hoists his arm up higher on his shoulder.

Clapping a hand over Lucas’s mouth, effectively reducing the volume of his drunken mumbles, he unsurely says, “I should, uh, probably get him home.”

Suddenly feeling stiff again, you nod in agreement. “Yeah, probably.”

“So I’ll see you around?”

“Sure, cool.”

And just like that, he’s hobbling away with Lucas hanging onto him, leaving you wondering exactly what the fuck just happened.

* * *

_ Year 4, Sophomore Year _

_Your vast prior experience and success in the competition will be a valuable asset and we would love to have you on the judging panel this year. Please let us know if you will be available and willing for the same on or before the 23 rd of January via return email._

You read and reread the last few sentences on the screen in front of you, not quite registering them. Taking off your glasses, you wipe them with the bottom of your t-shirt and put them back on, squinting at the email. Like a cruel joke, your phone is lying face up next to your laptop, the Rosewater group open with a message from Hendery that’s been read by everybody but without a single reply.

_Are we doing it this year?_

23rd of January. That gives you roughly two weeks to figure out what you’re going to do.

Your phone vibrates and you look away from the blinking cursor on the white reply screen on your laptop to see that Ten’s responded.

_Do we really want to?_

Lisa starts typing, then stops. It’s radio silence from Kun’s end too, but you can see that he’s online and reading the messages.

You picture them in their dorms and apartments, sitting like you on their messy beds, phone in their hand as they anxiously look at the screen, waiting for somebody else to say what they’re too scared to type.

You wonder if any of them got an invite to judge the competition as well, but it’s incredibly rare that more than one person from a band is on the panel. The last time it happened was when Rosewater was in eighth grade and two members from SHINee were judging. But you know that no band since, including yours, has reached their level of talent and expertise.

The tea begins to bubble on the stove and you lift the laptop off of your lap and place it on the bed, moving to the kitchenette in your tiny, rented, one bedroom apartment, phone in hand.

Setting it down on the counter, you pour your tea into a cup through a strainer, trying to think of something to say, something that might make the decision easier.

Two-fifths of the band wasn’t in town during Christmas, the other three won’t be able to make it in spring break, and the memory of last year’s disaster still plagues you.

You take a sip, thumb undecidedly hovering over the keypad for a few minutes, before you lock your phone, unable to come up with anything concrete.

The opportunity to judge the bands is an incredible honour, and one you’ve wanted for a long time. Of course, nothing compares to being on stage, but the thought of getting the validation, the respect and the chance to watch bands like yours perform and decide which one is the best gives you a rush of simultaneous pride, power and gratification.

And with things apparently going the same way, you’d rather not have a repeat of last year’s fiasco.

Mind made up, you place your empty cup in the sink and move to the bed, taking a picture of the email from the organisers and sending it to the still-silent Rosewater group. Then, in true Y/N, Empress of Avoidance fashion, you switch off your phone completely before anybody can reply.

You stare at your laptop screen and it stares right back at you, as if it’s goading you to do something reckless like reply in the affirmative immediately like you so, _so_ dearly want to. But your members’ betrayed faces swim to the forefront of your mind and you shut it before you can give in to the urge.

At the top of your laptop, next to the tiny GitHub sticker in the corner, you’ve stuck a post it note with your to-do list.

Unbidden, as they seem to do so often these days, your eyes run through the first five academic items before settling on the last one.

_stop thinking about him_

There’s no question as to whom it’s referring to. Unlike the other points on the list that all have messy, satisfied pen scratches over them signifying that they’re complete, this last one has half-hearted, incomplete lines drawn partway through the sentence before they stop abruptly.

You had made that list four months ago before starting to stick the subsequent notes on your mini-fridge instead, but you can’t peel it off of your laptop until you tick off, or rather scratch off, every point.

The remainder of the holidays post the competition the previous year was agonising enough, knowing that that catastrophic show wasn’t going to leave you alone anytime soon, but the days seemed to get more stressful as you had to combat all those new, uncomfortable thoughts about _him,_ which suddenly grew so much more intense after that night you two had spent on the balcony.

All at once, you were seeing him in every book you read, hearing him in every bass line you heard. Heck, you almost got a heart attack when you saw that somebody in your coding summer course had a name that started with ‘Y’. He wouldn’t leave you alone, ending up at the airport the same time as you for his flight back to college. You had ducked behind a large group of tourists to avoid him, but the deafeningly loud thumping of your heart and the _whoosh_ of your blood pounding in your ears made you feel so exposed. His black jeans and large, comfortable sweater paired with dark, full-rim glasses that you had never seen him wear before, with his jaw length, then bright red, hair tied in a small, messy ponytail, strands falling out in the front, had made you want to fling everything down on the floor like a petulant child and whine at the universe for making things so _difficult_ for you.

You had hoped that things would be easier once you got busy with college, but despite the immense workload that you miraculously were on top of, he _still_ managed to sneak into your thoughts, making you jump and scurry away every time you caught sight of the mural near your apartment that had a bunch of instruments painted on it, eyes automatically drawn to the bass. Or when you and your friend went to get your first tattoo, it was all you could do to not let out a startled yelp as you were going through the designs in the book, catching sight of the very same Japanese characters that wouldn’t leave your head.

Adding that last point to the list was a _necessity._

Absently, you wonder if anybody from Verve has got the invite to judge, and then with a heady thrill that leaves you positively reeling, you’re hit with the possibility of being able to sit right in front of the stage, with a perfect view and an even more perfect excuse to watch Yuta play, openly observing, greedily drinking in the way he works his instrument and the audience, under the equally intoxicating guise of judging and scoring him.

Feeling like the villain in your own story, you selfishly hope that the rest of Rosewater won’t want to play this year.

________________________

“Alright, Y/N?”

“Peachy,” you reply with a thumbs-up as you tug the lanyard over your neck. Soyeon gives you a cheery grin in answer to your own unasked enquiry in return.

When you had entered the venue, later than you usually do since you don’t have to go through sound check or finding out the performing order, you didn’t expect to see her standing near the judge’s table, next to the same high school teacher who had been on the panel three years prior (a Mr. Smith, you have been informed). But it didn’t throw you too much. In fact, it’s a bit calming, having somebody you know so well next to you, even if it’s someone with whom conversation has been restricted to _‘Happy birthday!’_ for the last two years.

Especially after Hendery had insisted on going on about how _intimidating_ all the other judges were going to be on the way over, nonchalantly taking his hands off the vehicle periodically while driving to wave them around in exaggeration, making you jerk sideways to catch the steering wheel while screaming bloody murder so you didn’t end up in a ditch before reaching the ripe, old age of 22.

The rest of Rosewater were all very excited on hearing about your judging invite, partly because they knew how much you wanted it, but mostly because it provided the band with a convenient excuse that they really, _really_ needed to not participate without bringing up the trauma of the previous year. 

You catch sight of them idly loafing around in the audience enclosure to your right, waiting for the competition to start. You don’t know what’s weirder, the fact that you aren’t with them, or the fact that none of you are in the waiting room for the first time in seven years.

The organiser who had handed you the ID cards that had your names and _JUDGE_ written on them asks, “You guys wanna talk to the participants? They go on in roughly twenty minutes, might be a good idea to ease their nerves a bit.”

Oh no.

Ever since Kun had mentioned that Verve would, in fact, be participating this year, this was the moment you’d been simultaneously dreading and eagerly anticipating. But not so _soon._

Unable to come up with a convincing excuse about why this is a very, very bad idea, you mutely nod along with the other two judges and follow the woman who leads all of you backstage to the waiting room that you know like the back of your hand.

You have to stop yourself from feverishly scanning the room for a sight of him, eager to see what colour his hair is now, whether he’s got any new piercings or tattoos in the last year, if he’s looking at you with the same, soft, genuine expression that you last saw him sporting on that balcony.

Morphing your features into an encouraging smile as Soyeon gives a tiny, heartening speech next to you, you let your eyes rove over the participants, nodding in cheerful acknowledgement at the ones you’ve competed against before but really on the lookout for just one, specific band.

You spot Jaehyun first. He gives you a wave and you return it, stomach tightening uncomfortably in a guilty sort of glee now that you know that any second, you’re going to be seeing Yuta for the first time in a year in person and not in your memories or imagination. Taeyong does his signature salute and you incline your head cordially to him and Lucas before your eyes land on him.

They’re standing at the corner, and through a tiny gap in between the crowded bodies, you ravenously scan him, toe to head. From his black sneakers to his tight, dark washed jeans with holes at the knees giving you a peek into his skin that feels gloriously forbidden, up to his plain, black t-shirt, short sleeves folded up even further so the ink is visible. Eagerly, unable to stop your eyes from roaming, you look at his ears, noticing with a jolt that there are new snug studs on both sides, before you stop short at his chin length, lavender ombre platinum blond hair.

Your gaze slides down to his face and your stomach gives an annoying swoop when you see him boring holes into your eyes. He looks cocky, smug at having caught you very obviously eye-fucking him, but there’s also something else in his expression, a twinkle that’s kind and amused.

You hear a polite cough next to you and you’re drawn out of your staring competition feeling like you’ve been pulled out of a lake after nearly drowning. Soyeon and Mr. Smith look at you expectantly. The organiser gently prompts, “And most of you probably know her, but for those who don’t, this is Y/N from Rosewater. Her band’s participated in and won the Summer Bash multiple times.”

She trails off, looking at you anticipatorily. You suddenly become very aware of the rest of the room staring at you with wide eyes, obviously waiting for you to do something.

Shaking your head slightly, you softly clear your throat before saying in as ebullient a voice as you can muster when it feels like you haven’t had a sip of water in days, “Good luck, guys! Have fun on stage. May the best band win!”

No namby-pamby, wishy-washy _‘It isn’t a competition, it’s a concert!’_ nonsense from you.

Cheers and applause follow and you all turn around to leave. You catch Yuta’s eye and see that he’s looking at you with an entertained grin, obviously pleased at having distracted you to such an extent, and you actively have to fight the blush that’s threatening to take over your face, a dry voice in your head cursing at you for acting like a dithering fool.

You’re all guided to the table in front of the main stage that has three clipboards with sheets containing the list of the participating bands, along with pens on the side. With a little wave at the growing, eager crowd and a special grin towards the rest of Rosewater who are all gathered near the front and giving you excited cheers, you take your seat in between the other two judges as indicated by the organiser.

You force your heart to calm down, the sight of your band aiding in the process as you read the names on the list in front of you that ends with _13.Verve._

As the PAR lights are flicked on and the audience becomes louder, Soyeon ducks her head towards you and asks with an insufferable, knowing grin, “What was that about?”

Playing dumb, refusing to look at her lest she can tell from your eyes that your heart’s just picked up pace again, you reply, “What was what about?”

“I might not have seen you in person for two years, but I remember what you look like when you’re trying to hold in a blush.”

You’ve never really regretted your relationship with Soyeon, but you’re mighty close to doing it now.

Sniffing, you say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She chuckles amusedly. Good to know she’s entertained. “It’s the Verve bassist, isn’t it? You definitely have a type.”

Kicking her under the table only begets more laughter, but you hate how called out you feel by that statement. So _what_ if Soyeon’s a bassist as well?

Further conversation is halted as the MC announces the beginning of the competition, and the next hour you spend jotting down marks and sometimes, random doodles when a particularly boring band comes along, guiltily grinning when Mr. Smith notices and gives you a scandalised glare.

It truly is something else, watching from the frontlines as other groups perform on stage, and you wonder exactly how the judges sit here, with screeching crowds right behind them and bright lights hitting from the front. However, you’re quite enjoying the experience of watching and deliberating scores, not really keeping track of which number is on stage, and you’re thrown for a loop when the MC announces, “And now, it’s time for our last band of the night, Verve!”

You resolutely look forward, practically feeling the cheeky grin that Soyeon throws at you, even though you would very much like to return it with a bonk over her head. But your gaze is trained on the amp that’s there near the front of the stage, too scared to look up.

You know that the moment you see Yuta in all his glory on stage, you might as well rip up the post it into a hundred pieces because you’re never going to be able to scratch out that last item.

But the pull is too great, the bass too deep for you to not look, and despite your greatest misgivings, you shift your eyes up just when Taeyong hits the snare with an almighty rim shot and the scoop lights suddenly turn on with the beat, illuminating the members on stage in a frenetic glow.

It’s like it’s all happening in slow motion. You can’t remember _why_ you didn’t want to see a sight this wonderful, with all the members very clearly feeling themselves on stage. It’s quite easy to see their appeal when you aren’t competing against them, you realise. You can barely bear to tear your eyes away from Taeyong having the time of his life behind the drum kit but with bated breath, you move to look at Yuta, and suddenly you feel like oxygen is in very short supply at the moment.

No smugness, no kindness, just pure, unadulterated joy radiates from his very being, beautiful, wide smile that you’ve never had the absolute _honour_ of seeing before etched on his face and head bobbing blithely, as he switches between looking down at his guitar and straight up at the audience. You’re hit by a rush of regret as you wonder just _why_ you never bothered to watch their shows like this, as a part of the crowd, and not just through tiny peeks from backstage or refusing to look at all from the waiting room.

You’ll freely admit to yourself, that in this one moment, you don’t want to look away. And then, like a flash, he looks straight at you, buoyant smile still plastered on his face, before giving you a slow and quite deliberate wink, right in the middle of a solo.

If you were expecting to feel angry, going by past experiences with his winks, you’re in for a mighty surprise. Breathlessly, you remember a voice screaming, “Marry me, Yuta!” and you think that maybe that audience member from four years ago had the right idea.

It feels like it’s over before it ever began as they walk off stage to raucous applause, with you, Soyeon and Mr. Smith giving standing ovations. In the middle of it all, Soyeon ducks towards you once again to be heard and says while clapping, “Good choice.”

You can’t even be mad at her. Your heart feels like it’s being held together by that last, deep note and it comes as no surprise that on the sheet in front of you, the maximum score is in the column next to _13.Verve._

Ten minutes later sees the three of you on stage next to the MC, Soyeon holding the trophy that’s waiting to be handed over to the winner that’s yet to be announced. Not that it’s a surprise to anybody. You feel a strong sense of pride as you see _Rosewater!_ written on the plaque multiple times, and suddenly feeling very grateful for your band, you look out into the crowd, giving a wide grin to Lisa, Kun, Ten and Hendery who are all beaming back at you, clearly similarly effected by the last performance.

One by one, the groups exit the stage to polite applause, until you hear the MC announcing, “And for the second time, our first place champions are Verve!”

You definitely aren’t expecting it when Soyeon shoves the trophy into your hands with a shit-eating grin, but in front of the hooting audience and the quickly advancing winners, you have no choice but to accept it before turning to Yuta who’s still sweaty from the performance, your fingers tightly clasped around the neck to prevent them from shaking.

His hands brush against yours as he’s accepting the trophy, and there’s a flash of a grin from him that’s dangerously toeing the line between gratitude and flirtation. Feeling light-headed at the contact and the half-smirk, you give a flustered bow before stepping back and allowing the other judges to congratulate the band, hoping nobody around you or from the audience can hear your heart veritably whomping in your chest.

* * *

“Didn’t expect you to be the running away type.”

The high drawl comes from directly behind you, right as you’re climbing into the back seat of the cab, and you freeze on spot, one leg inside the vehicle and one leg out.

Flashback to twenty minutes ago, after you had scurried off stage with your face burning, refusing to make any more contact with Yuta. Soyeon had not been able to stop giggling, even when the two of you were politely bidding Mr. Smith goodbye. You tried to no avail to stop blushing, but the more Soyeon poked and teased you, the redder you became until you felt like your entire body was on fire.

You had severely regretted the decision to walk with her to the car park and see her off, because she had spent the entire time asking you when _you_ were going ask him out, under the guise of _‘We should totally catch up, it’s been so long.’_

As you had watched her drive away, you felt entirely different kind of butterflies in your stomach, ones born from anxiety and worry about actually _dating_ somebody you like, and pleading a headache to a fairly disappointed Rosewater, you had booked a cab home to avoid going to the after party and possibly coming face to face with Yuta.

Obviously, your master plan hadn’t worked.

Cut to the present, and you know there’s no escape, now that he’s seen you trying to leave. Exhaling deeply, you slowly turn around to watch him standing about twelve feet away, looking at you with his head cocked to the side, challenging look in his eyes and a single brow lifted in gentle surprise.

He’s slightly panting, like he ran from the party to find you, and you refuse to let the tiny balloon of hope in your chest grow any larger, popping it immediately as you reply, “I’m not running away from anything.”

He scoffs, clearly disbelieving, and takes a few steps closer, obviously intent on discussing this, until he’s around nine feet away.

“Are you going to pretend you don’t feel anything?”

It gives you a shock, hearing the words you’ve spent so long trying to deny to yourself, and you immediately lash out, irritation coursing through you, with the full objective of putting him on the spot like he’s just done to you. 

“I’m not _pretending_ anything,” you spit out. “Just because your big, fat ego can’t _bear_ the thought of somebody not liking you-”

“I like you, though.”

“-doesn’t mean the world has to revolve around-what now?”

He looks at you, any and all traces of smugness removed from his face. He’s wearing the same expression that he had that night on the balcony, when he was about to say something before being interrupted by Lucas, and it’s open and frank, no deceit or cunning in sight.

You’re left gaping at him, trying to remember what words are, attempting to get your brain to catch up with your rapidly beating heart as he slowly steps closer and closer until there are roughly five tiny feet between your bodies.

“I like you,” he repeats simply, although there’s a trace of something like nervousness in his voice now. “And if I’m not mistaken, you like me too. But if I am, say the word and I’ll leave right now and let you get home to nurse that fake headache of yours.”

_Fucking Kun._

You’re saved the bother of answering him immediately by the Uber driver who rolls down his window and gruffly shouts, “I’ve got another ride, do you think you could speed it up, maybe? Or can I cancel your booking?”

You jump in alarm, having completely forgotten about the cab waiting for you. You look at Yuta, feeling like your heart has crawled up to your throat as you scan his face for some sign of amusement, for a signal that this is all one big joke. But then you remember the winking and the flirting and the sharing of a beer can on a dark, abandoned balcony after he had comforted you when he didn’t really have to, and you find nothing but genuineness in his candid gaze.

He waits patiently for you to make a decision, although you notice him subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot, probably toning down his fidgeting so as to not startle you too much.

Without allowing yourself to think too much about it, you turn around to the driver and say, “You can cancel the booking. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

He gives you a dirty look as you shut the still open back door, grumbling to himself, but you can’t pay attention to it, too distracted by the wide grin that’s slowly spreading over Yuta’s face.

He takes another step closer, and now the two of you are barely three feet apart. This close, you can see the tiny dimple on his right cheek, the sparkle in his eyes and the white, gleaming rows of teeth, his smile making you feel like you’re drowning but in the good way. You can count the number of earrings he’s wearing on each ear (four), and you feel an intense desire to reach out and tuck the wispy, escaped strands of his chin-length hair back into the small ponytail.

“So I wasn’t mistaken, then?” he asks, confirming what the both of you know, but what you’ve been too wimpy to say out loud.

“No, you weren’t,” you softly reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from your previous outburst from consuming you.

Taking a deep breath, you’re the one who steps forward this time. He startles but stays his ground, probably surprised that you’ve taken the initiative.

You have to tilt your head up to look at his face now and you do, as his neck bends down as well so he can make eye contact.

Shakily, you lift a slightly trembling hand, overly aware of his calm but pleased gaze, and gently tuck his soft hair behind his left ear, fingers grazing his helix stud in the process.

It’s like that one touch released a tightly wound spring in both of you, and suddenly, you’re both rushing forward, lips meeting in a firm kiss as his hands come up to cradle your face and yours loosely wind around his waist, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his body through his t-shirt.

You feel him grin against your lips and you can’t stop yourself from doing the same, feeling like an anchor that’s been tugging at your body has finally been pulled up.

Pulling away, with no real bite in his voice, he softly teases, “For somebody who looks so cool on stage, you sure are a worry wart, huh?”

“Shut up,” you petulantly whine, blush having returned in full force as he chuckles, amused at your reaction. You’d be more annoyed, but from this angle, you can see the flush on his neck and it eases you, knowing that he’s just as effected as you are.

From somewhere nearby, you can hear the beginnings of the party, bass boosted music reaching your earshot, and with a light grin, Yuta takes your hand in his, cocking his head towards the sound.

“Want to go listen to people talk about how great your performance was?”

Entangling your willing fingers in his, with a cheeky smirk that _really_ shouldn’t be that attractive, he replies, “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to hear feedback, spread the love!  
> find me on tumblr (where everything is cross posted) at @min-youngis :D


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